


Sinnerman

by thisisthefamilybusiness



Category: Hannibal - Thomas Harris, Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs - Thomas Harris
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence and Cannibalism, Dark Will, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hypnotism, M/M, Mind Games, Possessive Hannibal, References to Forced Drugging, References to Suicide, References to Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthefamilybusiness/pseuds/thisisthefamilybusiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will Graham, Will Graham. Are you jealous of my pretty little Special Agent? Or are you just trying to talk me in to freeing her? I know all your tricks, William. We're just alike, remember." </p><p>(Fill for the following prompt on HannibalKink: "Will's too broken to recover from being mentally fucked by Hannibal, but Clarice isn't. Will knows this and hunts them down. He rescues her by offering Hannibal something better: Will.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinnerman

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place somewhere near the very end of 'Hannibal'.

Hannibal Lecter has either gotten careless with time, or he has been waiting for someone to find him, because it only takes Will fifteen days to track him down to the sunny Tuscan countryside and to find himself wandering down a dirt road towards the villa leased out to a Dr. and Mrs. Faust.

(Will knows it's not because Lecter is careless. No version of Lecter that he can think of would ever make such a fatal mistake. Lecter is perpetually calm and calculating, and always, always five steps ahead of everyone else.)

Will has made no effort to hide his scars since he arrived in Italy. He knows that Lecter will know he's coming, then, even if Lecter has utterly decomposed in his careful calculating manner since they last met; there are only so many people who look like living Picassos that don't work in a freakshow.

He wants Lecter to know.

But, more importantly, he wants Clarice Starling to know.

* * *

Anyone with even a hint of cleverness and insight into Hannibal Lecter's mind could have worked this out, but not everyone has had the advantages Will Graham has had when it comes to knowing Hannibal Lecter.

Clarice is younger, clever, tough and sharp around all her edges; she is everything Will once was, and then some. It's good. She's still resilient.

(She can go home and learn to be fine again.)

Lecter doesn't value her for sex (sex is crude, sex is below Lecter); he values her for her mind and spirit. He's taken pleasure in breaking her and making her into his protégé, and while Lecter as Will had known him would never be so crude as to utter "fuck you", this is certainly one hell of a fuck you to everyone who worked against Lecter.

But Clarice has not yet been broken, not fully, even with Hannibal's masterful, constant manipulation–not if she's as tough as they always made her out to be, and Will hopes to God he's right.

(He knows he's right, because he and Hannibal, they're just alike, after all.)

* * *

Lecter looks healthier and tanned under the Italian sun than he did sitting in his dim cell in Will's memory. He has an arm wrapped around Clarice's slender waist as they relax in the cafe's patio, smiles on both of their faces as he orders cups of espresso for both of them in perfect Italian.

Will wonders how Lecter far has gotten in breaking her, if he's comfortable enough to take her out in public.

He slips the waiter a generous tip and hands him a thick off-white envelope, watches from his table in the hidden shade as Hannibal takes the letter from the waiter as his smile takes on a strained look.

By the time Lecter is looking around for any sight of Will, Will has vanished into a group of American tourists and out of sight.

Clarice Starling wasn't the only one to pick up a few tricks from the great Dr. Lecter.

* * *

There is a letter, written in crisp black ink on mauve paper, waiting on the desk of Will's hotel room when he gets back. It's addressed to Former Special Agent Will Graham in the spidery script he knows all too well.

Will smiles.

It's just like old times.

* * *

They meet in the same sun-drenched cafe, at the same table that Will first saw Lecter and Clarice sitting at.

Lecter orders them both espressos without asking Will if he'd like anything different.

"Who sent you?" Lecter asks conversationally, sipping at his coffee. "The FBI again?"

"No one sent me. I sent myself. I want to talk about Clarice."

Lecter tuts at him and shakes his head. "Now, that wasn't a very polite way to change the topic. Don't be rude."

"Apologies." Will isn't being genuine, but he doesn't think Lecter would be so reckless as to do anything in the middle of a public cafe on a bright afternoon.

"You're not too ugly after all. Pity. I really was so hoping you'd turn out a little more...interesting." Lecter carefully runs a finger along one of the scars on Will's face. "So much potential for art in you."

Will swallows down the bile that's building up in the back of his throat. "What are you going to do to Clarice?"

"For someone not working for anyone else, you are awfully intent on talking about my new favorite Special Agent." Lecter leaves his hand cupped under Will's jaw, smiling faintly, the way Will always imagined a snake would smile at their prey.

"If I was working for the Bureau, I wouldn't have come to see you. I would have sent a whole team after you."

Lecter hums tunelessly. "Do you like Clarice, Will? Isn't she just lovely?"

"She's beautiful. Very beautiful."

"She's so close to being perfect, don't you think? She doesn't fight me at all now, listens to me so wonderfully. _Such_ a quick learner."

"She's nothing like you," Will mutters as Lecter pulls his hand away from his face.

Lecter settles back into the black metal chair and leers. "I'm changing that, though. Clarice could be anyone I wanted her to be, anyone I told her to be."

"But she'll never be like you, not really. She thinks nothing like you. You can't change that."

"Will Graham, Will Graham. Are you jealous of my pretty little Special Agent? Or are you just trying to talk me in to freeing her? I know all your tricks, William. We're just alike, remember. Except that I use my full.... _potential_."

"No." Will's hands tremble as he takes a small sip of his espresso, trying to fake composure. "No. I just wanted to see if you'd gotten sloppy, or if you were letting me find you."

At that, Lecter's leer brightens immeasurably. "My, my. You haven't gotten dull at all. I worried that after what Dolarhyde did, after Molly left, you'd go all soft in your retirement. My worries were clearly unheeded. But you wouldn't have come all the way here to exchange pleasantries for old time's sake, now, would you, Will? What is it you really want? Is it Clarice? Do you expect to set her free? Do you think you have something you can use against me, Will? Is this going to be your revenge? Are you going to kill me, Will? Are you going to pull out your gun and shoot me down in the middle of this cafe? Going to make me pay for taking everything from you?" Lecter's tone never escalates above conversational, but he doesn't need to shout to sound threatening.

Will shakes his head. The trembling must be visible now as he sets his cup down with a clatter of china, he thinks to himself; if Hannibal couldn't see his internal terror before, he certainly will now. "No. No. I came here because I wanted to make you an offer."

"Whatever for, dear Will? For Clarice's life? Are you afraid I'll get bored and kill her? What do you think you have that you could give me? I already took your wife, your child, your job, your peace of mind from you. What else could I want?"

Will forces a teeth-baring smile. "Me. Take me and let Clarice go."

"Will, Will, Will. You just don't understand, do you? Where's the fun in playing with my old broken playthings when I've got a shiny new one? I can make Clarice anything I want. She'll be anything for me."

"No."

"Oh, what makes you think so?" Lecter is interested now, cup of coffee pushed aside.

"You want someone who thinks like you. You want someone who understands what you feel. You can make Clarice think she's in love with you. You can make her think she's just like you. But underneath, way deep down in her mind, she'll never be like you, will she? She'll never really understand."

"And _you_ do?"

Will lowers his gaze to the white linen of the tablecloth. "You said it. We're just alike."

"You want me to let Starling go and keep you instead? How can I trust you, Will? You tried to put me away, didn't you?"

When Will finally meets Lecter's eyes again, there's a predatory gleam in them. "Because I have nothing left to lose. What are you going to do? Kill me? Because it would be a mercy."

"Ah. Good Will thinks he's going to be a hero in his suicidal tendencies."

"Yes or no?"

Lecter drums out a familiar rhythm on the sun-warmed tablecloth. Bach's _Goldberg Variations_. "Will you be in Tuscany for much longer, Will?"

Will drops a handful of change on the table to pay for his espresso and shrugs. "I only have this hotel room for four more days. I like it here, though. I might stay." He walks off without another word, leaving Lecter to sip at coffee long gone cold as the sun slipped behind the horizon.

* * *

There is a present waiting for Hannibal when he arrives home: a lean American man of about twenty-eight years, naked and gagged and bound, lying freshly dead on the warm tile floor. His neck shows signs of strangulation, bruises livid on his skin.

Clarice is still locked safely away; he checks, just to be sure. (He knows that no one would dare to touch his things.)

Hannibal smiles; there is no doubt that this is Will's idea of a gift.

How... _polite_.

* * *

The clerk behind the hotel desk waves Will down as he heads off to go sight-seeing, hands him a mauve envelope.

It's addressed, once again, to Former Special Agent Will Graham.

His expression turns grim as he tears the envelope open.

It's a calling card. He doesn't even need to look at the address to know who it's from.

* * *

Clarice is asleep when Will arrives, or at least unconscious. She's wearing a white sundress, curled up on a brown leather sofa in the sunny front room of the villa, peaceful, at rest. He wonders if Lecter drugged her or if he had hypnotised her.

"Thank you for the gift. It was a lovely surprise. Did you enjoy killing him, Will, just like you enjoyed killing Hobbs?" The doctor slowly paces into the room from the kitchen.

Will doesn't move from where he stands beside Clarice on the couch. "What did you decide?"

"Ah-ah-ah, don't forget your manners, William. You didn't answer my question. Quid pro quo."

"I felt...powerful. Because I was alive and he wasn't. I–I enjoyed that."

"Good. I like it when you're honest with me, Will. Lying is tactless."

"So, what did you decide?"

Lecter hums and folds his hands together behind his back. "You believe Clarice Starling can be saved, unlike you. You believe she can go back to being normal. Trading yourself in is the noble thing to do, or so you believe. Am I right so far, Will? Tell me truly."

"Yes." Will is used to these mind games, sinking into Lecter's traps just like the old days.

"Hm. She reminded me a bit of you, at first. Dirt-poor, Deep South white trash that tried to escape the trailer camp, left alone young, went to college, thought that working for the Bureau would make everything a little better somehow. Both of you have rescue complexes, you with your stray dogs and her with her horses and lambs. You were a better investigator, more talent, more potential, but oh, Clarice had the fire in her veins and screaming in her ears, and you never did."

"I won't fight you. She did, but I won't."

"I'm not worried about fighting.”

“Please.” Will would beg, but he knows that Lecter would find it distasteful, base; it would only irritate him.

“What do you think would happen, Will, if I let her go? Do you imagine she’ll go running back to America, perfectly fine again? Do you imagine she’ll remember you as a hero? Do you think she can ever go back to being normal?”

“I imagine she’ll spend the next five years in a hospital trying to remember who she is and understanding all the horrifying things you made her do. But she can become herself, if she tries. She’s strong. You worry you’ve underestimated her strength, that’s why you force her to sleep so often. Sometimes you worry if she remembers things in her dreams, so you hypnotise her.”

“Interesting.” Lecter takes a step closer, runs a finger along Will’s scar again, expression unreadable. Will struggles not to flinch away. “You’ve been working on your gift.”

“I thought you’d value it.”

“What gave you the idea to find me?”

“There’s nothing left for me. You broke me. There could still be something left for her, though.”

Lecter tilts his head and stares down at Clarice. “You are incorrect on one manner, though, Will.”

“What?”

“Did you never find it curious I made sure that you stayed alive, Will? That I would take such pleasure in stealing everything you had but that I would go out of my way to keep you alive? If I wanted you dead when you ratted me out to the Bureau, why would I, a great surgeon and experienced killer, not snap your neck or stab you, slice open your stomach and let your own stomach acid destroy your heart and lungs?”

(Will knows why. He didn’t dare dwell on it before, because those were dangerous thoughts, dangerous spaces in his mind, ones haunted with the glances of Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s mind he had once seen, the shadows of a monster in human flesh.)

Will doesn’t reply.

“Why would I keep you alive?

“I keep you alive because you aren’t one of those other pigs, Will, little lambs all lined up for the slaughter. I keep you alive because you and I could be equals, Will.

“Clarice could never be my equal, Will. Clarice could be my toy, my plaything. But she could never be my equal.”

Will stands stone-still now, even as Lecter presses his sallow palm to Clarice’s cheek and beams down at her.

“We leave for Livorno at five tonight. She’ll stay here, someone will find her,” Lecter says slowly, quietly.

“What if she—”

“Will, Will, do you think I would be so stupid as to let her go if I felt like she was dangerous? Even if I hadn’t been playing her like a violin and couldn’t force her to forget or remember anything I chose, who is going to believe her? Who is going to _want_ to try to find us, Will? After all we have done? After all we are going to do? I have so many plans for us, good Will; we are going to have so much _fun_.”

**Author's Note:**

> If I ever have an actual title, there is 100% chance it's ripped from a song. This time, 'Sinnerman' by Nina Simone.


End file.
